


grade 4 skybuilders' cotton

by patrexes



Series: xfiles.mp3 [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Clothed Sex, F/M, No Beta We Die Staring Longingly At EW Alisaie, Patch 6.0: Endwalker Spoilers, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29260053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: “Gods, it’s so thin,” Alphinaud murmurs, the ribbed fabric of Alisaie’s romper shifting beneath his fingertips. “Aren’t you cold?”
Relationships: Alisaie Leveilleur/Alphinaud Leveilleur
Series: xfiles.mp3 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587925
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	grade 4 skybuilders' cotton

**Author's Note:**

> when i zoomed in real close on alisaie's new outfit i was like "oh look it's ribbed cotton jersey!" and then i went "wait does eorzea have cotton actually" and all of 5 seconds later i remembered the 20000 approved grade 4 skybuilders' cotton bolls which took up far too much of my inventory very recently. they definitely have cotton.

“Gods, it’s so thin,” Alphinaud murmurs, the ribbed fabric of Alisaie’s romper shifting beneath his fingertips. “Aren’t you cold?”

He knows he could see his breath, were his face not buried in his sister’s neck, she straddling his lap and her own hands busy with the work of pulling his necklace off over his head and tugging him free of his complicated layers. Alisaie’s own jacket has already long been deposited on the floor beside the newly lit hearth in their dingy little inn room, and her gloves soon after, Alphinaud staring shamelessly as she tugged them off one after the other with her teeth. Now all she wears, perched proudly in her brother's lap, is her barely-there romper. It leaves naught to the imagination, neither with the cut which rides up her thighs on the battlefield, nor with the flimsy white cotton which does nothing to disguise the way her nipples harden for a chill or a soft touch, dark areolae like a stain showing up through the fabric. 

“Cold?” Alisaie scoffs, though the wind has brought pink up to her cheeks as bright as any cosmetics, and the tips of her ears and nose are nearer to the color of her jacket than her rapier. “It’s barely chilly.” She steals a kiss from his lips, and her nose against his skin is like icing a bruise. 

“You can’t impress me, Alisaie,” he chides, “and there’s nothing impressive about frostbite besides how quickly it gnaws off your fingers.” 

Alisaie hums playfully, shoving Alphinaud’s clothes down his shoulder to bare his chest. “Mm,” she says, her eyes—he can’t quite tell in the low light—on his tits, or perhaps the purpling bruise he can feel on his ribcage. “And you’d miss my fingers, wouldn’t you?” Her first touch is gentle, the (cold) pads of her fingers soft over his collarbone, but after the grimace clears off his face from the chill she drags her nails down his chest. She brings up welts in her wake, harsh red lines down his sternum and the side of one breast. Alphinaud’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, only for her hand slipping down his hose to force them back wide. 

“Alisaie—!” he argues, trying to close his legs around her hand as if to lock her out, but Alisaie only _tsk_ s him and finds the right angle to press in, cold fingers all at once knuckle-deep in his cunt, and the end of her name is lost in a gasp. 

“Yes, yes,” she says, terribly pleased with herself. “Lie back, won’t you? You don’t get to have _all_ the fun, and this position is horrendous.” Alphinaud has to admit she’s right, at least for the sake of her back: she’s hunched above him to reach between his legs, looking more like a sin eater in the gleam of firelight than a girl. But he also can see down the halfway zipped neck of her romper to the bruises which he kissed into the swell of her tits, and for _that_ , the position cannot be beaten. Still, he acquiesces, lowering himself down first to elbows and then his head against the floorboards. 

“Good boy,” Alisaie says, and he blushes, embarrassed as though he’s got anything left to be embarrassed about when they’ve been having each other like this since they were all of thirteen, stealing kisses in the dark. For all their arguments and differences, they’ve ever been inseparable, together even when they weren’t. It was Alphinaud who lied for her absence (“Studying for exams,” he’d stammered out at the dinner table, certain he’d be challenged, “with Krile Baldesion.”) the first time Alisaie had ever snuck out to go on a date with a girl. It was Alisaie who’d called him a hopeless fool scant hours before they were set to depart for Eorzea and had to visit the chirurgeon for fear the ‘goodbye present’ Alphinaud had let his betrothed talk him into become a complication at sea. For better or worse, or for mockery, they know each others’ tastes as well as their own, and the right buttons to push. 

“Mm,” Alphinaud whines in a voice higher than his own sits naturally, bringing a hand up to play with his own breast and watching for Alisaie’s suspicious glare. When she provides it, he moans, “Miss Alisaie…” and wholly earns the way she digs her nails into the front wall of his cunt. Pleased, he laughs. “Come on, let me taste you.” 

Alisaie rolls her eyes, but it’s what she wants, too, and she’s never been one to punish herself for things her brother decided to do. On hands and knees, she readjusts, pulling her two fingers free of Alphinaud—practically dripping, when she pushes his hose down his hips to expose his cunt to the warming air—and settling back so that she can finger him as he mouths at her clit. She makes no attempt to remove it, nor her boots, but her inseam is soaked through and one of her lips Alphinaud can see up the leg of Alisaie’s shorts. She’s not wearing smallclothes: as thin as the romper is, Alphinaud should have known that, should have realized when he couldn’t take his eyes off her ass and saw no waistband or more solid white from a second layer of fabric, but he hadn’t, somehow, and the glance of her cunt feels now like he’s stolen it, oddly thrilling. Just as Alisaie wastes no time fucking him on her fingers, cupping one of his tits in her free hand, he wastes no time pressing a kiss between her thighs, pushing aside the inseam of her shorts with his nose so it’s only her on his tongue, and not the cotton it’s now so inexpensive to purchase in the Holy See, for reasons which quite frankly elude him.


End file.
